


forever

by zedpm



Series: disco aus [2]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blanket Permission, Canon Character of Color, Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Children, Detroit, F/M, First Time, Gen, Homelessness, None Of It Is Graphic, POV Third Person Limited, Past Domestic Violence, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Tense, Past Torture, Poverty, Time Travel, Veterans, World War III, a sex scene where nobody has sex, but then that's what star trek is about isn't it!, i'm not kidding about the major character death lmao, just in general burnham is like wow this fucking sucks you guys, so many original characters y'all, weirdly political for time travel romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 16:29:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19380469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zedpm/pseuds/zedpm
Summary: “December fifth, 2038. Midway through World War III. Our mission is as such unknown. The Temporal Agency found evidence of my presence here, in this time period, and sent us back only to make sure I am in the—” she glanced down. “Bright Hope Women’s Shelter holiday photo.”Stamets laughed. “You know, I still think it’s funny that they decided this after you got your hair done. An all-knowing temporal agency bases their decision on Burnham getting red tips.”





	forever

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this like. way early in season one but it's too blatantly a rip-off of _city on the edge of forever_ to turn into an original short story (i tried and it just didn't work, hence why it has so many ocs). but i still really like it so like! whatever y'all. i can't imagine this will get any hits but at least it's not in my drafts anymore lmao
> 
> this is set in the 2800s (timeships babey), and the 2030s. also i haven’t seen enterprise but i know it has some kind of time war thing which i don’t care about enough to read the memory alpha article for, so this might not be totally canon compliant.
> 
> me: fuck enterprise canon idc  
> also me: what’s the moon phase gonna be on 10 dec 2038 i have to be accurate
> 
> **content warning:** major character death; graphic depiction of a murder; mentions of past sexual assault, torture, domestic abuse, transmisogyny; cigarette smoking; some characters are homeless. also this is very oc-heavy

> ‘Let me help.’ A hundred years or so from now, I believe, a famous novelist will write a classic using that theme. He'll recommend those three words even over I love you.
> 
> —Harlan Ellison, _The City on the Edge of Forever_

 

 

Michael stayed behind after the briefing let out. Eyeing her captain’s back, she said, “Something’s bothering you,” and watched as Georgiou tensed further.

“I have a bad feeling about this mission,” Georgiou said. She turned around, and Michael observed tight, anxious lines around her mouth and eyes. “I know it’s illogical, but as soon as you agreed to go, all the hairs on the back of my neck stood up at once. I don’t like this, Michael.”

“I trust your instincts,” Michael said, which was true. “I would withdraw from this mission if I could, but—”

“But there’s evidence of your presence in this time period,” Georgiou finished. “We don’t have a choice.” She sat down, propping her elbows on her knees and her head on her hands, rubbing hard at her eyes. “Ancient humans believed that the cosmos dictated their actions. Sometimes I wonder if they were right.” 

“There are times when it feels like we’re being controlled by some outside force,” Michael said, looking out the window at the passing stars. They were balls of gas, she knew, and nothing more, but she couldn’t escape the quasi-religious awe which came upon her at odd moments, face to face with their vastness. “Especially with our job, it can seem like predestination is inherent to the universe. Fate. But we do have free will.”

“I suppose,” Georgiou said, raising her head and staring with eyes Michael knew, the look the captain got when she didn’t want to spread around her worry. “Report tomorrow at 0800 hours. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

 

* * *

 

Michael and Stamets beamed into the drop point, dizzy as they touched down on the filthy ground. Michael shook her head, and held out her arm for Stamets to administer a syringe. She gritted her teeth as the needle pierced her skin. Stamets blanched and cleaned her arm, and she did the same to him.

“I know we can’t leave behind any advanced tech, but I feel like I’m in the Stone Age,” Stamets said, shaking his head as the dizziness left him.

“The temporal prime directive—”

“I know, I know. Didn’t I just say that?” Stamets looked around the room, grimacing in disgust. It was frigid, and water seeped through the ceiling, joining generations of water stains. The floor was concrete, cracked in long rivets where dirt pushed up and created a layer of dust and grime. The room was vast and dark, except where light poured in through holes in the roof. There was equipment strewn in a disarray which suggested hopelessness, in some odd intangible way. Their brief had said this was an abandoned automobile factory, but it was immediately clear they couldn’t stay there. “Ugh, what a drop point,” Stamets said, rubbing his bright red nose with his gloved hands. “You wanna scan for life signs?” 

She did, and the building was clear. She found a room with rusted tables and chairs and a long-looted kitchen and called to Stamets, and they spread their things over a table, Stamets tapping his chair as though he thought it might collapse.

“Detroit, United States,” Michael said, looking at the map they’d spread over the table. She took a mission report, paper, written in Standard. It was enough of a mishmash of Tellarite, Formal Vulcan, Earth Mandarin, the three most common Andorian dialects, Klingonese, Betazed and High Trill that the Agency deemed it safe if detected—other than spatterings of Mandarin, it would read as complete gibberish to whatever primitive human got ahold of it. “December fifth, 2038. Midway through World War III. Our mission is as such unknown. The Temporal Agency found evidence of my presence here, in this time period, and sent us back only to make sure I am in the—” she glanced down. “Bright Hope Women’s Shelter holiday photo.”

Stamets laughed. “You know, I still think it’s funny that they decided this after you got your hair done. An all-knowing temporal agency bases their decision on Burnham getting red tips.”

Michael shrugged, then cracked a smile. “It goes with my uniform.”

Stamets laughed for a few more seconds, then frowned. “I still wish we knew more about this assignment,” he muttered. 

Michael’s smile widened, and Stamets groaned. “That’s why your primary obligation will be to research the people at the shelter. See if any of them have any importance. Make sure we don’t inadvertently change something.”

“You know how I love research,” Stamets said sardonically. Michael winked, and he glared. 

“I’ll check out the shelter tomorrow,” Michael said. “Today I’ll go see about finding us a real apartment so we don’t have to stay here. This structure is not suitable for long-term habitation.” She took out a red marker and put a large “X” over the drop point and the shelter. “We’ll be at our own discretion as to when this mission ends, though I’m assuming it will be no later than Christmas day, which is December 25th.”

“I’m going to do my research in a coffee shop or something,” Stamets said, gathering up their materials and putting them in his pack. “It’s cold as shit in here.”

Michael nodded and headed off. “Appraise me of your location,” she said, holding up the medieval cellular phone she’d been issued and tapping on it. She checked her purse and verified that she had her wallet, which had both cash and a bank card linked to an Agency dummy account. They headed out into the vicious cold.

 

* * *

 

Michael headed to the shelter first thing the next morning, leaving Stamets a note on the refrigerator. She ate a pear as she walked, noticing the sour taste. The world seemed, at once, more and less real than the one she had left. She wondered if this was the way pears were supposed to taste, or if these humans had altered them somehow, as they seemed to do everything. Though she knew about this time in an intellectual capacity, she couldn’t stop the shock and horror when she saw people sitting on the street, dirty and poorly clothed. The cruelty of it, the thought of how easy it would be to fix the problem, made her dizzy. After seeing a lone passerby drop a coin into one of their cups, she gave each person she passed money from her billfold until she had no currency left. 

She passed by three more homeless people before she reached the shelter, and as she guiltily passed them by, she understood with sudden sharpness why the other people didn’t seem to register their existence. They suffered such a great injustice that to care about them would destroy their ability to survive. She saw a coffee shop across the street just before her intersection and, nodding to herself, doubled back and asked all three people for drink orders. The second, who introduced herself as Tanya, thanked Michael over and over, holding the drink to her face to absorb its warmth, and Michael shook her head. “I should be passing by here often,” she said. “I’ll bring more money from now on.” Tanya gave her an odd look, and Michael said, “I ran out, before.” Tanya sipped her coffee, an Americano with soy milk and two sugars, and gave her a smile tinged with disbelief.

Bright Hope was a shoddy building, but it radiated warmth. Its dilapidated roof was framed by string lights; its hairline-cracked windows had decals of snowflakes and holiday figures. Outside, several women sat on a stoop next to five stairs and a ramp leading up onto the shelter, smoking cigarettes and dangling their legs, and they waved to Michael cheerily as she walked by them. She entered and flexed her hands as the heat restored feeling to her fingers, looking around the clean room and at a fir tree which had donation slips next to childlike handmade ornaments.

“How can I help you?” asked the woman sitting behind a desk, with the same kind cheer. She was a huge woman in both size and demeanor; easily two meters tall, heavyset, with straight blue hair and black skin, and a presence about her that exuded comfort throughout the small, sparse room. Michael could see, looking at her, how a woman in need would feel safer if she was the first person they met at the shelter. Her name tag said, _Hi, I’m Destiny! Ask me anything!_

“I was wondering about working for the shelter,” Michael said, attempting to shrink her presence. Rule eight of time travel: _Be forgettable._ But she felt eyes on her still, and could tell that this woman’s largeness did not overtake others but amplified them.

“You’ll want to talk to Ash,” Destiny said. She smiled at Michael. “What’s your name, hon?”

“Michael Jones,” Michael said. She reached for her falsified identification chip, and Destiny waved her off.

“Come with me,” Destiny said. She led Michael into an adjacent room to the left, where eight women waited. Michael looked around; one was pacing and yelling into a phone in Yoruba, two were sleeping, and the rest sat in moderately uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs. Michael hunched into herself, uncomfortable, and wished that she had some way to help them which would last longer than whatever she might achieve in three weeks at the shelter. 

Destiny sat her down in a chair and said, “Talk to someone. If you’re going to work here, you need to be comfortable with the women. Ash is with someone right now, I’ll get you as soon as he’s ready.” She left, and Michael slumped in the chair and looked at the water-stained ceiling, wondering how a day she had barely begun could tire her so much that she wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. She was beginning to understand the rigorous standards required to travel in time, and why so many missions were just stopping others from going rogue. If not for her training, and her vulcan upbringing, she would have been unable to stop herself from tearing the world asunder. _It’s only thirty years,_ she told herself. _Thirty years and then first contact, and they rebuild. They build a society where people do not suffer. Some of them will suffer now, and die, but the good of the many outweighs the good of the few. Their children will see the stars._ She took a long breath.

The woman beside Michael smiled at her, and Michael smiled back tentatively. “I’m Lourdes,” the woman said. She was Latina, tall and lean, with eyes too far apart on her face, a severe jawline, and a chipped front tooth. Her neck bore a ring of black bruises in the shape of two large hands.

“Michael,” Michael said.

“I heard Destiny say you were planning on working here,” Lourdes said. “It’s a good shelter.” She shrugged. “It’s for all women, which is hard to find.”

“What do you mean?” 

“You know.” Lourdes gestured to herself, and Michael stared blankly. “All women. Including women like me.” Michael was still confused, and evidently it showed, because Lourdes sighed and said, “You know, transgender women.”

“Oh! Sorry.” Michael frowned. “That’s not normal?”

Lourdes tilted her head. “What planet did you beam in from, sweetheart?” 

Michael shrugged. “This is my first time working for a shelter. I guess I just assumed… a women’s shelter is supposed to take women in, right? That’s the point. It’s discriminatory otherwise. If they don’t let in trans women, then they should call it a cis shelter.”

Lourdes threw back her head and laughed. “I like you, Michael,” she said, still chuckling. “A cis shelter. That’s good.” 

Michael could feel herself relaxing, and quirked her mouth up in a smile. Lourdes grinned at her. “This is my second time here,” she said. “I came out to my husband about two years ago, and he was… not pleased, to say the least. So I came here.” She leaned back in her chair and sighed. “Bright helped me get on my feet, paid for my hormones. But my little girl was still with Matthew. And when he told me he’d changed, I was so desperate to believe him that I went back. But,” she gestured to her neck, “he hadn’t changed. Not one fucking bit.” She smiled with pure satisfaction and gestured to a doorway across the room. “But this time my Juanita is with me. And we’re never going back.”

“Good,” Michael said. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Lourdes shrugged. “I’m just glad we are where we are now. You can’t always get there from here.” She smiled wolfishly. “Of course, if Matthew were to die mysteriously, I wouldn’t exactly be upset.”

Michael nodded, smiling with her eyes this time. The door to the waiting room opened, and Destiny waved for Michael to come with her. Michael nodded, stood, and on impulse leaned down and kissed Lourdes’s cheek. Lourdes winked at her, and Michael left the room.

Destiny clapped her on the back, and Michael stumbled. “I see you met Lourdes,” she said. “She’s a good woman. A sister.” She led Michael through the reception area to a small suite of offices, and tapped on the frame of an open door. “I’ve got a new recruit here for you, Ash.” 

Michael entered the room, and saw a middle-aged, tan-skinned man with a beard sitting behind a desk. He didn’t have a right arm; his navy blue sweater was sewed over the residual limb. He gestured to an armchair across from him and said, “Thanks, Destiny.” Michael sat, and Destiny closed the door behind her. Michael stared at him, her eyes focusing out as she tried to see him all at once. She had a feeling in her gut, one she couldn’t quite identify. It was like she knew this man, from somewhere beyond time or space. She cocked her head, looking at his cheekbones, his broad shoulders, his short-cropped hair. Finally she looked in his eyes, a deep warm brown, and felt seen.

Ash leaned forwards and propped his elbow on the desk, putting his head on his hand. Michael couldn’t help but notice the way his fingers curled around his jaw, and had to force herself to look in his eyes again. This was ridiculous. “Do I know you?” Ash asked. His voice was soft, curious.

“I was just wondering that,” Michael admitted. “But we can’t have met.”

Ash shook his head. “Anyway.” He laughed, and Michael felt it again. Recognition. “Destiny says you’re interested in working for us. What did you have in mind?”

“Whatever you have open,” Michael said. “I have a degree in social work, if that makes any difference.”

Ash hummed. “Do you have a CV?” he asked, and she reached into her purse and handed him the document. He read over it, making small noises of approval. “You’re an impressive woman, Michael Jones,” he said. “We don’t have a very big staff. A few receptionists, a fundraising manager, bureaucratic stuff. How would you feel about just coming in for a few days, talking to the different people, seeing if there’s a job that you think would suit you here?”

“That sounds fine,” Michael said.

“We all have the same salary,” Ash continued, tapping on the desk. “I don’t make more than Destiny, who doesn’t make more than the custodial staff. The same goes for any kind of hierarchical structure. Everybody’s job is important. That’s something you should know.”

“I’m not concerned about money or labels,” Michael said. “I just want to help. If it would be better to bill me as a volunteer, or a paid intern or something, for monetary reasons, that’s fine.” She broke off eye contact and looked at a point just beyond his face, focusing on the eggshell wall.

Ash nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Why don’t you mingle a little? It can seem scary at first, knowing how much our residents depend on us, how easy it is to fuck things up for them, and it helps to just get to know them. Here’s my number.” She entered it into her ancient smartphone, thanked him, and stood.

Ash spoke as she reached for the door handle. “We do the best we can by our people. It never feels like enough, but that’s something you’ll just have to learn how to accept. You do what you can, and you make your own difference. That’s all anybody can ask for, when you get down to it.” She turned back to him, and he shrugged. “Don’t be too hard on yourself if you come across a problem you can’t figure out how to solve. Be here at seven for a few days, and we’ll see how you fit in.” 

Michael thought it was probably rude not to turn back, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. The way he looked at her felt good; enough so that she didn’t know what she would do, if she had the chance. It frightened her. She was used to being unseen, recognized only as an authority or a subordinate, for giving or following orders. She knew she was excellent, but unremarkable, thought of only when others remembered her skill and needed it for some task. But the look in Ash Tyler’s eyes said otherwise. 

“Okay,” she said, and opened the door.

 

* * *

 

Michael found her days passing quickly at Bright. On Friday, Ash pulled her into his office from the kids’ playroom, where she’d been telling them about the bajoran Orb of Time. The smile Ash gave her when she promised to continue her stories filled her with a warmth so tangible she thought she could use it to light a fire. She’d intended to avoid him, after that first day, but found it unnecessary; there were always bathrooms to clean, women who needed a shoulder, billing reports for review, job interviews to arrange. She’d been relieved, and adjusted him as they passed by each other in the hallways, too busy to stand and stare at each other, which she half-expected to happen at some point. She could picture them standing at opposite ends of some hallway or crowded room and locking eyes, unable to look away, like star-crossed lovers out of some shitty romance novel.

“You’re good with them,” he said, handing her a coffee, black with cinnamon, how she always took it, though she didn’t know how he knew. Soft light filtered in through his window, the pink-yellow of an obscenely early winter sunset painted on his cheeks. 

She shrugged. “Kids are easy,” she said. “You just treat them like people, and they like you.”

Ash smiled again, the same tender smile. He shook his head, and said, “I have two things. First, I think you’re actually serving us well roaming. It’s helpful for us to have someone to call if we need a little extra help, who has no specific obligations. You’ve also pointed out interesting ways for us to cooperate that we might not have thought of on our own. I’d like to give you some kind of vague title, general assistant or consultant maybe, and have you keep working in that capacity. You’ll get the flat salary, and can let me know what hours work for you.”

“Sounds good,” Michael said. This worked better for everyone, when she thought about it—when she left, she wouldn’t be leaving anything unfinished. “What’s the other thing?”

“Will you go out to dinner with me tonight?” Ash asked. He looked her in the eyes, his face open, a slight hint of nervousness there.

“A date?” Michael clarified.

Ash nodded. “I like you very much,” he said. “I want to get to know you better.”

Michael sat back onto the couch and thought. Her activity on this assignment was discretionary; she had no real objective other than to be in the holiday photo. There was the possibility that without her presence, Ash might meet his true love or father an important child. Perhaps at the time of their date, he was meant to stop a murder of someone with historical significance. But the Agency knew she’d been here, and if Ash felt even a fraction of the pull towards her she did towards him, he wouldn’t be able to focus on a new relationship with someone other than her anyway. 

In terms of the job, he had been handling her employ, but she didn’t feel like there was any power imbalance. In a lot of ways, she had the advantage. There was privilege in being from the future. Ash would have to live out his life in this broken world; she came from a place of social richness, moral and material wealth, which would be near incomprehensible to him. Michael had a safety net.

And then her fear was still there, the fear of him knowing her. She felt like if she let him in, he would stay in her, a presence which could not be tamed or cauterized or locked away. But she wanted him, and he’d offered, and it wasn’t complicated, when you put it in those terms. She wanted him, and he wanted her. She had two weeks to know Ash Tyler, and then she’d lose the chance forever. She would return to the future and think of him at odd moments, never able to answer what might have happened if she’d said yes. He would be an unanswerable question, haunting the back of her mind when it sang the litany of her regrets.

Okay, so it was still pretty complicated.

Ash watched her, and she wondered how he already knew her well enough to take her contemplation in stride, rather than as a rejection. Or if he was just so kind that he would treat anyone like this. Maybe it was both. “Seven o’clock?” she asked.

Ash smiled. “Sounds great. I’ll come get you when it’s time.”

Michael headed back to the kids, sitting on the couch. Juanita, Lourdes’s eight year old daughter, sat on the floor below her, and Michael braided her hair in complicated patterns as she talked. “Are you a writer?” Sully asked. He was a sallow, wheezy nine year old with mud-brown hair, and liked to ram his wheelchair into the other kids and then cry about how they were being ableist when they attempted to retaliate. 

Michael nodded. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “I’ve been telling you about the bajorans. But how about I introduce you to one of their favorite sweets?” She handed off Juanita’s braids to Najat, a fourteen year old refugee from Qatar who had wholeheartedly adored Michael since she’d learned she—or rather her universal translator, though Najat didn’t need to know that—spoke Arabic. Najat kissed Juanita on the head quickly, and she giggled. 

“Why don’t Sully and Darrian come with me to the food mart,” she said. Darrian was Sully’s best friend, a small autistic ten year old who, if given the chance, would wax rhapsodic about boxing for hours. “I’ll go ask your moms, and you guys get bundled up and check whether the kitchen has cornstarch and corn syrup.” She checked in with Marion, Sully’s mother, and Darrian’s moms, Imani and Ngozi, who all agreed. She checked her watch: five o’clock. They had time.

Sully and Darrian ran ahead of her, screeching and giggling, and she smiled to herself. She led them to the fruit aisle. “Now, there aren’t any jumja trees on Earth,” she said, winking conspiratorially. “But I think date, fig, and kumquat should be a decent approximation. Let’s get some agave nectar too, and sticks. And sugar.” She bought two huge bags of oranges whose smell made her mouth water, and they all peeled and ate them, the juice icing on their mittens as they walked back to Bright. Sully turned on the dizzying LED lights on his wheels, and they gleamed under the night sky, which only showed the waxing moon and the north star. Dinner was ready in the mess when they returned, and the kids joined their friends in eating turkey, broccoli and jollof rice. 

Michael texted Ash: _Cooking with the kids. Mind if we push it to 8?_

He responded, _np cya then._

After dinner Michael commandeered the kitchen, setting tasks to each of the kids. Soon they were boiling the jumja sticks, and after waiting, they bit into them excitedly. Michael nibbled on hers and nearly spat it out. She looked around the room, and the kids were eyeing her nervously.

“Well, that’s disgusting,” Michael said, and they all laughed. “Sorry, guys. We can make brownies or something.”

Najat was eating hers enthusiastically. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said in Arabic. “This is delicious.” Michael translated, and they all stared at Najat in horror. She shrugged. “More for me.”

Ash peeked his head in through the door. “It’s eight,” he said. “It’s probably some of your bedtimes, guys. Go wash up.”

Ash and some of the older kids helped clean up the kitchen, and Michael put the jumja sticks in a tupperware for Najat. She held one out to Ash. “Want a jumja stick?” she asked. “They’re disgusting.”

He took it and took a tentative bite, scrunching up his face in revulsion as he processed the taste. “You weren’t kidding.”

The room was clean, and Michael said, “Ready?”

“Are you guys going on a date?” Najat teased in Arabic. 

“Yes,” Ash responded, in Arabic too. 

Michael wagged her finger at Najat. “No teasing,” she said. “Or maybe I can talk about the not so little crush you have on—”

Najat’s eyes widened. “Have fun, have fun, bye!” she yelled, pushing them out the door and slamming it behind them. Ash laughed. They headed out, wrapping themselves in coats and shivering at the bitter cold. 

“I’d offer to carry your purse,” Ash said, blowing small flecks of snow away from his face. “But I’d like to use my arm to hold your hand.” His cheeks were ruddy, and his smile was infectious. She hadn’t smiled as much in her life as she had in the week since arriving here, like some bud of joy had blossomed inside her until her chest was nothing but spring blooms. 

“I’d prefer that too,” Michael said, and took his gloved hand in hers. They walked and chatted idly until they reached the restaurant, a little hole in the wall Ethiopian place whose rich smells overtook her as they approached. 

They slipped into a booth, and a tall, lean, dark-skinned man with a large afro approached, doing a complicated handshake with Ash. He said, “Ash, man, hey. Who’s the dame?”

“Hey, Kofi. This is Michael,” Ash said. She waved. “She works at Bright.”

“Good going, good going,” Kofi said, winking at her. She winked back. “Your usual, Ash?”

“Let Michael look at the menu, man,” Ash said. 

Michael shook her head. “Just give me some injera and a veg platter.” 

Kofi gave her two thumbs up. “Drink?”

“Water, please.” 

“Cool.”

Kofi slapped Ash on the back and said, in a lowered voice, “She’s hot, dude. Nice.”

Ash rolled his eyes. “Sorry about him,” he said. “He’s a good kid.”

They ate dinner, talking and laughing. Michael found herself at ease as they spoke, and relaxed gradually, until she felt practically boneless. Ash paid for dinner and they fell into step outside the restaurant, stopping for hot chocolates after a particularly vicious gust of wind. Michael paid this time, and they headed to her apartment, shoulders together. They stopped outside the building and Ash gave her a look that made her shiver.

“Good first date?” he asked.

“Good first date,” Michael agreed. Ash watched her, and she quirked an eyebrow. He laughed, and Michael laughed too, pulling Ash close and kissing him. She shook her head as she pulled away, laughed again.

Ash tilted his head. “I’m not sure how to take that,” he said. But he was grinning.

“Good first kiss,” Michael said. She pecked him on the cheek. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“Monday,” Ash repeated, breathless, and Michael headed inside, standing in the hallway outside her door for several minutes until she could wipe the silly grin off her face.

 

* * *

 

Michael shopped that weekend, and glared at Stamets’s questioning look as she set her bags on the kitchen island. “I pass by twenty-two homeless people on the way to Bright,” she told him, and he quirked an eyebrow. “I got them all gloves and scarves and hats. I’ve been giving them money, but I figure they’re spending it on food. It won’t change the timeline if a few people don’t get frostbite.”

Stamets smiled at her. “So Burnham has a heart,” he said. “Who would’ve guessed?” She threw him a chocolate bar, and he tore into it. 

“Shut up,” Michael said. “It’s abhorrent, the conditions they live in. It’s just basic human decency.”

“Getting to you?” Stamets asked. He took a bite of the chocolate, and she scowled at him. “I get it. It’s hard, seeing people suffer, not being able to help.”

“Well, I can do this,” Michael said. Monday morning, she left early, handing out the clothes. 

Tanya stood eagerly as soon as she saw Michael. “Missed you this weekend. You getting me my Americano?” she asked, taking a long drag off a cigarette. She winked.

“I can do that,” Michael said. “Here. I have these too.” She tossed Tanya a bag, and Tanya handed Michael her cigarette as she pulled on the clothes. 

She flexed her hands and grinned. “What’s next, Christmas dinner?” Michael shrugged. Tanya grinned and punched her in the arm. “Seriously, _chica,_ thank you. It’s fucking cold out here.”

Michael nodded. “Here,” she said, handing Tanya a twenty. “I have work. But get yourself that coffee.”

Bright was already well into the day when she arrived. Destiny grinned at her and jerked a finger behind her to the office suites. “Emily wants your help with some financials,” she said. “She told me to make sure nobody else snaps you up.”

Michael smiled and hung up her coat. “Noted.”

Emily, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman of about thirty-five, was waiting in her office with coffee, and gestured for Michael to close the door behind her. “So we need to sort out these expense reports for last month,” she said, glancing at a disarray of papers strewn over her desk. Michael nodded and sat, sipping the coffee. As they sorted, Michael could feel Emily watching her, and looked at her, raising an eyebrow at her mischievous grin. 

“I heard you and Ash went out on a date,” Emily said, and Michael groaned. “Well? Spill, girl!”

“We just went out for dinner,” Michael said. “It was nice.”

Emily waggled her eyebrows. Michael flipped her off. “Okay, okay,” Emily laughed. “You went out for dinner. Where?”

Michael sighed, and spoke, outlining the date in as much excruciating detail as Emily demanded. As she talked, small details stuck out—the way Ash’s thumb had brushed against her hand. The look of his hair in the brightness of a snowy night.

_I’m in over my head,_ Michael thought, and didn’t push her fondness away.

“So, do you think you’ll go out with him again?” Emily asked.

“Yeah,” Michael said, aware that it was a bad call, unable to make herself care. “I think I will.”

 

* * *

 

Michael and Ash spent most of their time together, after that first date. They fell into a routine, after work, getting dinner, going back to his apartment. It was strangely pleasant, to exist without the rigor of her work with Starfleet, even as she was confronted, daily, with the horrors of this time. 

She knew that her ability to be carefree, to do something as simple and easy as enjoy another human being’s company, was contingent on the fact that this time was still, as vivid as it was, not hers. She wasn’t going to run out of money; she didn’t have to worry about rent or utilities. All she had to worry about was being in a photograph, and the fact that the longer she stayed here, the less she wanted to leave.

 

* * *

 

Michael knew she was bubbly with happiness when she headed back to the apartment, unable to contain the skip in her step. She tried to tamp down her enthusiasm, but couldn’t help touching the bracelet circling her wrist—a bracelet Ash had given her—over and over, admiring the craft of the engravings of planets in stainless steel. Stamets raised an eyebrow at her when she opened the door. 

“Whatcha been up to, Mikey?” he asked, and she scowled. 

“I was just out with Ash,” she said. She ran her fingers over the bracelet. 

“Loverboy give you that?”

“Yes.” He beckoned, and she held out her wrist. 

Stamets inspected it and murmured his approval. “Your man has good taste.”

“He’s not my man,” Michael said. “I know it’s not permanent. We’re just going on some dates. It’s casual.”

Stamets snorted. Michael shook her head and walked into the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water. “There’s leftover Thai if you want any,” Michael called, and Stamets followed her, grabbing the takeout container and leaning against the counter.

“Thanks,” he said, his mouth still full. 

“Sure,” Michael said. She reached for the bracelet again, and, seeing Stamets watching her, inspected her nails. “It really is casual with me and Ash, you know. We’re only here for another six days. The holiday party is on the twenty-third.”

Stamets took another bite of rice, looking at her with far more kindness than she had ever seen from him before. She looked away.

“He make you happy?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“You miss him when you don’t see him?”

“I see him almost every day.”

“Michael.”

“Yes.”

“You want to do things for him? Remember little details? Notice things you never notice about anyone else?”

“What’s your point, Stamets?” Michael snapped. “Yes, I do those things. We’re dating. That’s what you do.”

Stamets shook his head. “That’s what you do when you’re in love,” he said.

“No,” Michael said. Stamets just looked at her. “Stop it,” she said.

“I’m guessing you don’t have much experience with dating, if any,” he said, and she looked away, hating how obvious she was. “So maybe you don’t know what it’s like to be in love. I’ve loved four men in my life, and I know how it feels.”

“Who were they?” Michael asked. She propped her elbows on the counter behind her, looking at Stamets’s cheek, wanting to hate him but unable.

Stamets smiled “The first was Brett,” he said. “I was fifteen. It was in Dallas, Texas, on Earth. He had this little birthmark, right here.” He tapped his jaw. “He was my best friend. He loved antique cars, and whenever I found parts for him, he would kiss my hand, in between my thumb and my pointer finger.” He propped one leg up on the cabinet behind him, tapping his fingers. “The second was T’Kaur. That was at the Academy. He was a vulcan. Such a serious man, but he could be very sweet. He was a botanist, and he would always make me these plant arrangements.” Stamets laughed. “Some of them were beautiful, but some were so ugly, very vulcan. It was like getting a math equation made out of flowers. He made me laugh, though. The third was Tobias. He was on the ship of my second posting, he was the engineer’s nephew. He was a beautiful man, a poet, quite brilliant, but very sad.” His voice was tinged with melancholy. “I’d take him with us sometimes, on landing parties, and he could always find the beauty in a place. He saw it everywhere. Where you and I would see rocks or statistics or barren land, he’d see more. But he killed himself after we’d been together for about a year.”

“I’m sorry,” Michael said. It felt inadequate, somehow. She wanted to be more, in this moment, to be the kind of person who had words capable of driving away Stamets’s sorrow. She didn’t know how to find the empathy inside her.

Stamets shrugged. “It happens,” he said. “The fourth man I’ve loved is Hugh.”

Michael nodded. “How did you know, with Dr. Culber?” she asked. “That he was the one?”

Stamets bit his lip. “Hm. I guess… I’m still always happy to see him. I get tired of people easily. But with Hugh, I never stop wanting to hear about what he’s been doing. I want to be around when I’m done with my day, with everybody else. It feels like something’s missing, when he’s not near.”

Michael sucked in a breath. She found herself, helplessly, missing Ash. “I know what you mean,” she said, soft, bitter. “It’s not—I’ve only known him for three weeks. It’s not logical to be this attached.”

“Love isn’t logical,” Stamets said. He reached for her, and she flinched. “It just happens. That’s why they call it falling. You don’t have a choice.”

Michael gripped her bracelet for a second, and then wiped hot tears from her eyes angrily. Stamets reached for her again, and she let him touch her shoulder softly.

“It’s okay,” Stamets said. “It’s better to have something good for a little while and lose it than never have it at all. I don’t regret the time I spent on Tobias, and you should let yourself have Ash while you can.”

She shook her head, then nodded. Stamets clapped. “That’s quite enough emotionalism for like, a week,” he said. “Come on, insult me or something. Let’s get back to normal.”

Michael schooled her face into a sneer, knowing it was half-hearted. “Did you just lay around all day?” she said, and Stamets gave her a glare without heat. “Not having a job isn’t an excuse for laziness, Stamets.”

“Falling into that old neoliberal ideation, Burnham?” Stamets shot back. “I didn’t know you were so susceptible to twenty-first century dogma.” He patted her shoulder and washed off his fork. “That’s better.”

“Better than awful isn’t a high standard to meet,” Michael snarked, and Stamets’s mouth quirked up in a grin. “I’m going to bed.”

Stamets nodded. She headed to her room, cleaning off and dressing mindlessly, and realized as she laid down, with a hint of dismay, that after all that, she wanted to talk to Ash. She clenched her fists and didn’t call him, staring through her window at the building next door. She saw through dimmed curtains a person, laughing. 

Her phone rang, and she reached for it, swiping to answer without looking at the caller ID. “Jones,” she said.

“Michael, hey,” Ash said, and she wondered how it was possible for the heart to constrict and fill up, all at once.

“Ash,” she replied, putting him on speakerphone and laying down with her eyes closed. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to hear your voice,” he told her. “I missed you. I guess that’s kind of silly.” She wondered how he was like he was; how a person who had suffered so much, in war and in the barbaric society surrounding him, could still wear his heart on his sleeve without shame or doubt. Could give himself to her, and trust she would keep him safe. 

“No,” she said. “I miss you too.” She moved the phone next to her head and turned over on her side, imagining Ash lying next to her. “I always miss you when we’re not together. If you’re silly, I’m ridiculous.”

“I’m glad you feel it too,” Ash said. “It’s—I’ve never felt like this. You make me feel warm. Safe.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Me too. What are you doing?”

“I’m just on the couch.” Michael pictured it: Ash, dressed down, leaning back on his brown couch. His hair falling over his eyes. “Talking to you.”

“I’m in bed,” she said. Ash murmured, incoherent. “You sound tired.”

“Long day,” Ash said. “Good day. Will you talk to me, a little bit?”

“You should lie down,” Michael said. “Fall asleep. I’ll tell you about the trill.” She heard rustling, a running tap, the click of lights. “The trill are some of the stranger aliens out there, at least by human standards,” she began. “They’re actually not one species, but two…”

 

* * *

 

They spent Christmas at Bright, neither one of them partial to the holiday. Christianity was largely a niche religion in Michael’s time; Ash had celebrated Eid as October succumbed to oncoming November. They made hot cocoa and exchanged gifts, Michael stunned at the pile that formed at her feet. Lourdes had gotten her a scarf, Destiny a matching pair of gloves. 

The gift she loved the most was a little handmade book the kids had put together, titled _Michael and the Mighty Brights._ It depicted her as the leader of a team of superheroes, telling the story of a mission to save women lost in the war. The final page read, _We love you! Merry Christmas!_ and bore the signatures of all the kids at Bright. Michael blinked away tears and said, her voice wobbling, “Ah, hell. How am I supposed to hug all of you at once?”

After, she and Ash got sushi, went back to Ash’s apartment, and curled up together, watching the snow fall outside the window. _Maybe,_ Michael thought, _I should start looking for a way._

 

* * *

 

Michael didn’t bother to hide her cheer as she walked in the apartment, shedding her overclothes. “What’s up, buttercup?” she sang, throwing her scarf in Stamets’s face. He brushed it off, looking at her, and dread seeped into her belly. She sat on the armchair and leaned towards him. “Stamets? What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been doing some more research,” Stamets said, looking away. “About Bright. This didn’t show up in the initial files I found, but I was double checking, and I found some more stuff that was sealed. It’s about Ash.”

“What is it?” Michael watched him. “Tell me.”

Stamets took a deep breath. “Ash Tyler is the ward of Rachel Cochrane, the beneficiary to her will,” he read. “If he lives, he gets her millions and donates it all to the relief effort. But if he dies, she relents and wills it to her estranged brother, Jebidiah Cochrane. He gambles most of it away, but enough of it is left that his son is able to buy equipment for his most ambitious project.” 

“Warp drive,” Michael said. “Zefram Cochrane is his son.” Her mind went blank for a second. She sat down hard on the ground. 

Stamets steered her into an alley and sat across from her. “We’ll find another way,” he said. “We could bring him with us—a mysterious disappearance—”

“No,” Michael said flatly. She closed her eyes and concentrated. Found each emotion swirling around her dizzied brain—rage, fear, despair, helplessness, love, sorrow, regret—and ground it into dust. She opened her eyes. “Rachel will hold out hope. She won’t change her will. You know it as well as I do, Stamets. Ash Tyler must die. He’s been dead for eight hundred years.”

Stamets looked at her, his eyes hollow. “It’s tomorrow. After he’s done at the shelter, at 2317. He’s stabbed to death in an alleyway.” 

She nodded and stood. “I’ll make sure that happens.”

Stamets recoiled. “Michael, no. I’ll do it. You don’t have to—no one should have to bear that.”

“It’s my mess,” Michael said. “I’ll clean it up.” She walked away without looking back, knowing exactly where she needed to go.

Michael sat outside the shelter with Lourdes, Emily, and Ngozi, absorbing their presence but not their words. She inhaled their tobacco smoke and held it in her throat for a long moment. “May I have one?” she asked Lourdes, who looked down at her cigarette and frowned.

“Oh, honey,” Lourdes said. “It’s not a good habit. You shouldn’t start.” Ngozi and Emily murmured their agreement.

“Just this once,” Michael promised. Lourdes put a cigarette in her mouth and lit it, passing it to Michael, who stuck it in her mouth and sat. She pulled it out and blinked.

“You have to inhale,” Lourdes told her. “Suck the smoke out of it, then close your mouth and breathe in through your nose. Then blow it out.”

Michael tried it, and coughed violently for several seconds. Lourdes plucked the cigarette out of her fingers and made a tsk’ing sound as Michael continued to cough. “This isn’t for you, sweetie. Take this, Emily.” Emily took the cigarette and inhaled deeply. Michael’s eyes watered, and before she could stop it, she was weeping, deep raking ugly sobs that shook her whole body. She hugged herself.

Lourdes moved towards her and hugged her with one arm, rubbing soothing circles up and down her back. “It’s okay,” she said. “You’ll be alright.”

Michael wept harder, and began to hyperventilate. “I can’t—breathe,” she gasped. 

Lourdes tutted. “Give me back that cigarette.” She took the half smoked stick and held it to Michael. “Use this,” she said. “Don’t breathe so deep. Just hold the smoke in your mouth for a second.” Michael took it, and breathed in. She finished the cigarette with shaking fingers, throwing it on the sidewalk and grounding it out with her boot. Her mouth tasted vile, but she could breathe again.

“Sorry,” she said.

“It happens,” said Lourdes kindly, rubbing her hand up and down Michael’s arm. Michael tucked her head into Lourdes’s armpit and let go the last few straggling sobs. It hit her, then. She wasn’t just losing Ash when she left. She was losing all of them; the first people she’d ever really loved. She would never again sit on the stoop with Lourdes, giggling over vodka shots and cupping her hands to shield her cigarette from the icy wind. She would never see Sully and Juanita and Najat age, crow over report card victories, help them learn from defeats. She would never walk to the corner store with Destiny, soaking in her warm presence and listening to her embellished stories, never have her own spill out of her from the soft nostalgic place that only Destiny had ever managed to reach. Michael closed her eyes and searched herself, but couldn’t think of a single thing she was returning to that would even begin to refill her hollowed out chest. She would be emptied out entirely.

Lourdes nudged Michael, who sat up straight, her side burning at the abrupt cold. “Ash should be out soon. Here.” She wiped the tear tracks from Michael’s eyes and tucked her hair behind her ear, then kissed her forehead. 

Michael wiped snot from her nose with her sleeve and smiled weakly. “Thank you.”

“You’re good for that boy,” Lourdes said. Emily and Ngozi nodded. “He could use a little light in his life.” She whistled. Somehow the sound was sorrowful. “God knows he needs it.”

Michael looked away. “Yeah.” She tuned out again, staring at the starless sky. _They’ve destroyed themselves,_ she thought. _And now I have to destroy the one bright thing left in this shit-ugly world._

Ash walked outside, brightening when he saw her. “Michael!” he said, walking over to her and kissing her cheek. “Didn’t know I would see you today.”

“Here I am,” she said. She felt herself leaning towards him like a captured moon of a verdant planet. “Let’s go back to your apartment.”

He smiled. “Okay.” They picked up pizza on the way, and when they sat down on his couch and he leaned in to kiss her, she pulled back. 

“I need to brush my teeth,” she said. “Is my toothbrush still here?”

Ash looked at her, confused. “Yeah, why?”

“I smoked a cigarette,” Michael said, shamefaced. “My mouth tastes awful.”

Ash laughed and kissed her forehead. “You know where everything is.” The words throbbed. So little time, and yet—her life was here. She felt the tendrils of a thought and shoved them aside. She couldn’t stay. This time wasn’t for her. 

She brushed her teeth so hard her gums bled, and then spat and spat until the tap ran clear. She watched the mirror as she brushed, staring at the small, dark figure she knew must be her. The reflection had her nose, her thin eyelashes, her lopsided breasts, her ragged fingernails. But she didn’t recognize her, and thought the stranger would live on in the mirror when she was gone, watching, waiting.

She brushed her teeth so hard her gums bled, and then spat and spat until the tap ran clear. Ash was two slices into his pizza when she emerged. “Will you kiss me now?”

She leaned towards him and took his hand, pressing their middle and pointer fingers together and rubbing them up and down. “This is how my people kiss,” she said softly.

He looked at her and curled their fingers together. “Your people?”

She nodded, and he didn’t pry. They ate pizza and listened to the radio quietly, and she plastered herself to his side every chance she got. He looked at her with a question in his eyes, and she shook her head. After dinner, they retreated to his bedroom, the radio trickling in through the cracked door. 

_fifty-two now confirmed dead in wednesday’s malaysian nightclub bombing… eight young girls found were found trapped under a floor in brenham, texas this morning when a concerned neighbor checked in on george watson, forty five, now confirmed deceased. their tongues had been cut out… forecast for tomorrow is ten degrees and sleet, so remember to wear your raincoats, folks… president vasquez tweeted earlier today that america will not be intimidated by dprk leader kim chul-soon’s boasts of nuclear supremacy. “we have the most and the best nukes, so watch your ass if you don’t want to be a burn shadow, tiny man,” her tweet read… the nu-un expressed concerns at heightened tensions, and will issue a statement tomorrow calling for worldwide disarmament. npr’s hedrick lamar is here to comment…_

Michael wondered when news like this had become routine to her. She clung to Ash’s side. “Ash,” she said. She knew her voice was tinged with desperation, and didn’t know how to stop it. She had wanted, without knowing it, for this night to be perfect, but she didn’t even feel like it was real. She put her hand over Ash’s heart, feeling the steady drumming, and wished she could pluck this moment from time and live there. His heart kept beating. _Alive. Alive. Alive._

He looked at her. His face was open, always open, and his eyes were so kind Michael thought for a moment that she might be sick. “I love you, Michael,” he said. 

She closed her eyes. “I love you too,” she whispered.

He took her hand. “Then why are you so sad?” He tapped her face, and she opened her eyes. “We love each other. It’s one of the miracles in this world, finding a love like this.”

She shook her head, and felt herself trembling. “Just hold me, Ash. Please, just…” He shushed her, and took her in his arms. 

“This will be good,” he told her. “Us. We’ll be so good.”

Her watch beeped, and she extricated herself and rolled over to answer. “I’m with Ash, Paul,” she said. “Can it wait?”

There was a long silence, and the radio droned, _i think the problem we’re seeing here is a complete disregard for reality amongst our political establishment. president vasquez has been called a sociopath by many top psychologists, and i think it’s time to confront…_

“Yes,” Stamets said, his voice heavy. “It can wait. I’ll see you tomorrow, Michael.”

“Tomorrow,” she repeated. She laid back down flat, and Ash laid with his head on her breast. Suddenly she was overcome, and pulled him up to kiss her. She let her mind go, and they kissed fervently. When she reached for his shorts he pulled back, and she looked at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, hunched in on himself, looking ashamed. “I can’t… I don’t know if you heard from the residents at the shelter what happened to me, but it was… I can’t have sex again yet. Maybe not ever. I’m sorry.”

She looked at him seriously. “All that matters is that you’re with me,” she said. She held his face in her hands and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Of course we don’t have to have sex. I’ll love you regardless.”

He smiled, and she smiled back at him. They kissed again, and he laid down, drowsy. Michael turned on her side and whispered, “I want to see all of you. Not for sex, but I want—I want to know what every part of you looks like.” 

He nodded, turning his face away and, after a minute of hesitation, pulled off his shirt, then his boxers. She reached for her own shirt and he said, “Don’t. I think it’ll help if you’re dressed.” She put her hand over his heart, nodding, and he breathed in. 

“Lie down,” she said. “Your back first, then your front.”

He gripped her hand and turned over. She stifled a gasp when she saw his back. It was a tapestry of raised scars, long, heavy whip marks from just below his neck to his waist. “Have you read _Beloved?”_ she asked.

“The tree,” Ash said. His voice was heavy, slightly muffled by the pillow. “I’ve read Morrison.”

“Can I touch?”

Ash hesitated. “You can try,” he said. “I might not react well. Nobody’s ever—”

“Okay,” she said. “If you can’t, you can’t.”

She started with the back of his head, spreading both hands along it and feeling his soft hair, holding it gently. She traced his skull, memorizing the variations along the bone. A small section was more tender, and she said, “You were hit here?” He made a noise of assent. She moved down to his neck, feeling the soft hairs there, running her hand down the notches of his spine.

“I’m moving down to your back now,” she said. “Let me know if you want me to stop, and I’ll skip it.”

“Okay,” Ash whispered. She tentatively touched the scar right under his neck, and he tensed. She pulled her hand up, and after a second, he said, “Again.” She touched it with just her fingers. “It’s okay,” he said. “It feels… different, with you.” She ran her hand along the line until it intersected with another, and followed the path of them, like they would lead to something. Ash shivered.

She stopped, but didn’t remove her hand. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s not bad. It’s like you’re healing me.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like you’re pouring your love straight into me.”

She kissed his back, right in the center, and continued. She spent a long time on his back, touching and looking, and then moved back up to memorize the backs of his arm. Then she asked, “Is it okay if I touch your buttocks and genitalia?”

“Yes,” he said. He sounded more relaxed than she’d ever heard him, a kind of drowsy contentment. She put her hands against his ass and touched each divot, the small mole on his right cheek. Then she moved on to his legs, running her hands up and down them before touching every variation in texture.

“Turn over,” she said softly. He assented, rolling over with a sleepy murmur. She looked at his face then, closing her eyes and touching each part of it. She tugged on his earlobes, and he laughed softly. She moved on to his neck, gently feeling his adam’s apple. Then she touched his chest, feeling the hair there, the pebbled texture of his nipples. She moved on to his waist, feeling the variation as his chest receded. She touched his soft cock gently, as nonsexually as she could, getting a feel for its weight and texture, the coarse hair there. Then she caressed his legs, gently touching a large burn scar on his right calf. She examined his feet last, the bone and veins there, the indentation on his left foot where his three middle toes were missing. She kissed the base of each foot and laid next to him, where he watched her with sleepy eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” she said.

“I love you,” he said, and then yawned. She helped him back into his clothes tenderly, and they laid together. He kissed her softly, his eyes rapt, and she held him to her breast. He slept, his soft snoring a lullaby, and Michael felt herself falling into sleep.

 

* * *

 

Michael woke the next morning and immediately closed her eyes again. _He dies today,_ she thought dully. _Ash dies today. He dies today._ She willed herself to accept it, to believe it, and opened her eyes again. She headed into the kitchen and found a note on the counter.

_michael—didnt want to wake you. im at the shelter today, get off at 8. my fridge is ur fridge, hmu tn if u want to hangout. love you and thx for last nite. xoxoxo ash_

She pocketed the note, and headed to her apartment. Stamets was there, and he sprang up when he saw her. She closed her eyes and let him hug her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m glad you were with him last night.”

“You need to contact the ship,” Michael said. “Let them know to pick us up at midnight. We need to clean up here.” She shook her head. “I need to tell the shelter I’m leaving. I’ll handle the landlord, too. Meet me outside the alley tonight at 2330. I’ll see you then, Stamets.”

Stamets nodded, grim. She headed downstairs and gave the landlord rent for the next year in cash. Then she walked to the shelter. Lourdes and Emily were sitting outside, smoking. She looked Lourdes and Emily laughed, saying, “I’ll let you two talk.”

Lourdes propped up one of her knees, smiling at Michael. “You feeling better, sweetie?”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “I have something for you, Lourdes.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the apartment key. 

Lourdes took it, looking at her questioningly. “What’s this?”

“An apartment,” Michael said. “For you and Juanita. Rent’s paid up a year. It’s furnished, too.”

Lourdes gaped. “Michael! This is—holy fuck! Thank you!” She held up the key, examining it.

Michael shrugged. “I love you guys. It’s the least I could do.”

Lourdes hugged her, tight and fierce. “We love you too,” she said. “Is something going on?” She held Michael out and searched her face. “Are you okay?”

“Family emergency,” Michael said. “I’ve got to pack up and head out. You can move in tomorrow.” 

Lourdes nodded sympathetically. “Do what you gotta do. You’ll have a place to stay when you get back,” she said wonderingly, holding up the key again. 

Michael cracked a smile. “I’ve got to straighten things up here,” she said. “I’ll tell you goodbye before I leave.” She headed towards the doors.

“You better!” Lourdes called.

Michael had hoped to handle her resignation quietly, but had no such luck. Destiny hadn't even tried to hide her ugly crying, nor had the children, and she’d been hugged over and over, her sweater sticky with tears. She lost count of the number of people she’d told she would write, feeling a sharp pang at each promise already broken.

Emily declared an impromptu goodbye party, swatting at Michael when she tried to refuse. Najat refused to leave her side, clinging to her arm and sniffling. Michael sat with her after twenty minutes of this, hugging her as she cried. “You know I love you, habibti,” she whispered, kissing Najat’s hair. “Just keep that love with you. You’re going to be incredible, I just know it.” She hummed and rocked Najat, the task of comforting her keeping her own grief at bay. Sully and Juanita and Darrian all came over to them and they sat together, telling stories and eating chocolate. Michael locked her sorrow away and looked at them all, committing their faces to memory.

How could she not have noticed this happening to her? When had the rooms full of women stopped screaming despair and started looking like hope? When had chicken dinners and stories before bedtime turned into routine? When had her heart filled up, so full of love she thought it might burst? When had Sully’s runny nose and Emily’s incessant prodding and Najat’s gossipy asides begun to translate to family? When had Bright’s doors stopped looking drab and started looking like home?

Home. Michael had never known it before. As she ran her hands through Najat’s unruly hair, watching Ash from the corner of her eye, she wondered if she ever would again.

 

* * *

 

After the party died down, around seven, Michael hugged everyone and headed for the door. Lourdes waited near the coat rack, leaning against the wall and grinning. Michael slipped on her coat and gloves. “Ash’s outside,” Lourdes said. “He’s waiting for you. But you promised me goodbye.”

Michael felt her eyes swell with tears and reached for Lourdes, hugging her fiercely. “The point of these places is to help you women,” she said. “But I think it was you that saved me. Thank you, Lourdes.” She pulled away and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I can never tell you how much you mean to me.”

Lourdes smiled, her face wet. “You don’t have to,” she said. She cupped Michael’s face and kissed her mouth how Michael had seen her kiss Juanita; affectionate, quick, motherly. “I’ll see you soon, okay? We’ll keep in touch. You can’t get rid of me.”

Michael nodded through a teary smile, hating the lie. “See you soon,” she said. She gripped Lourdes’s hand, once, and headed out the door.

Ash waited, looking out at the street. Michael watched him for a long moment, taking in the plane of his back, his earlobes peeking out of his cap. Michael had hoped last night would fill her with him, ease what was to come. But she knew now, watching Ash, that it hadn’t been enough. It could never have been enough, not a hundred nights, not a thousand. There was no number of nights that could have made this one any less bleak. She wiped the tears from her face and put on a smile. “Ready?” she called.

Ash turned back to her, smiling. “Ready,” he said.

They went to the Ethiopian restaurant, laughing over injera and talking about nothing. When they were done, it was nine, and Michael led him to a park near the alley where he would be killed. She felt sick, full with it, and regretted eating. They sat on a bench, huddled for warmth, and Ash rubbed her shoulder tenderly. “You’ll come back,” he said, kissing Michael’s forehead. “Or I’ll follow you. We’ll get through this.”

Michael shuddered and berated herself. “I love you,” she said. “I love you, Ash. I love you.”

“There’s that sadness,” Ash said. He pulled away and looked in Michael’s eyes. “Is something else wrong?”

Michael looked away and gasped, holding her stomach. _The temporal prime directive—_ she thought. _He can never—_

But Ash would be dead in an hour. She shook herself. _The law—but Ash—_

Ash had his hand on Michael’s back, and Michael steeled herself, turning to him. “Let me tell you a story,” she said. Ash nodded, curious and confused. Michael looked away. “It’s about a woman named Michael Burnham.” Ash cocked his head, and Michael continued. “Michael grew up in a world without want. A world…” she gripped Ash’s hand. “Where humans had settled the galaxy, and eliminated hunger or fear or need. She grew up on a farming colony thirty thousand light years from Earth, where the sea was red and every night three stars set on the horizon, so the sunset looked like boiling blood. When she was six the colony was attacked by raiders, and she was the only survivor. She was found and adopted by an alien race, the vulcans, who raised her to set aside feelings and focus only on the pursuit of pure logic. She used this to overcome her grief and become a commander on a ship. Not just any ship, but one that could travel in time as well as space.” Michael looked up at the sky, missing the stars shrouded by pollution, and Ash squeezed her hand. “She did her job. She helped time pass by unchanged, thinking only of the mission, never stopping to make friends or appreciate the wonder of the world surrounding her. But then she had a mission that was different.” She looked at Ash then, his wide eyes, the wonder there. Michael cupped his cheek. “I fell in love. It was beautiful, and terrible, and meant more to me than any supernova I’ve seen or emperor I’ve met or wonder I’ve experienced. But I always knew it wouldn’t last forever.”

Ash breathed in slowly. “You have to go back.”

She nodded. “This time doesn’t belong to me. I could disrupt the timeline if I stay. The future might never happen.”

Ash gripped her hand so tightly she thought it might break. “This is impossible,” he said. “I shouldn’t believe you. But I do.” He closed his eyes, and tears fell. “So we’ll never see each other again.” 

Michael looked away. Ash turned her face to him and kissed her. “You’ll still be with me,” he said fiercely. “You’ve changed me too. A love like this doesn’t stop. You’ll be a part of me for as long as my heart beats.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Michael whispered. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to Ash’s. “I wish we could stay like this forever.” She pulled away and checked her watch. 2302. “It’s nearly time.”

Ash kissed her, hard. “I love you, Michael Burnham.”

Michael bit her lip. “I love you, Ash Tyler.” She checked again. 2310. “I’ll walk you home.”

They headed towards Ash’s apartment, silent, clinging to each other. As they passed by the broken streetlight near the alley, Michael felt metal pressed to the back of her head. She closed her eyes and put her hands up. “Give me your money,” a gruff voice said, and steered them into the alley.

“We don’t have anything,” Ash protested. “You don’t have to do this. I know what it’s like, but there’s other ways. I’ll help you, I promise. Just let us go, man.”

“Your money,” the voice repeated, “now.”

Michael kept her eyes closed. Ash said, “We really don’t have anything. Look, I’ll show—”

A shot rang out. Michael’s eyes opened. The minutes followed in fragments, which she would later try to piece together with little success. Ash falling to the ground, crumpled. Blood splayed on the alley wall. Her ears, ringing. The men backing away, then running. The scent of urine. Ash’s fingers twitching. A shattered beer bottle. The moonlight on her shoes. Fingers splayed across Ash’s chest. A voice saying Ash’s name. The cold ground. Stamets’s face, shouting. His fingernails, always so meticulous, flecked with blood. The starless sky.

 

* * *

 

Michael felt herself materialize, and blinked into the bright lights. She swayed, dizzy, and then turned her head to the side and vomited. She heard cries, but couldn’t stop herself, just kept going until she was retching. She felt Dr. Culber press a hypospray to her arm, heard the whoosh, and steadied herself, her hand on his shoulder. “I’m fine,” she said. She felt disconnected from her body, and lurched again. “I just need to sleep.”

“Sleep,” Culber said. “Paul can do the debrief.” Stamets nodded, and Culber led Michael to her quarters, leaving her three hyposprays: one for sleep, one for nausea, and one for anxiety. When he left, she injected all three, and fell asleep to troubled dreams.

When she awoke there was a notification blinking to visit the captain in her quarters. It was nearly 2000 hours, and she checked the captain’s location before showering, changing, and heading over. As she walked the halls she could swear she felt the phantom chill of Detroit winds, and shivered. 

Georgiou was looking at her with sad eyes when she arrived, and Michael entered wordlessly. “Stamets told me what happened,” she said. Michael didn’t respond. “Michael.”

Michael looked at her, and then lowered her eyes, walking towards the window.

“Are you okay?” Georgiou asked. Her voice was far too gentle, heartrendingly so. She approached Michael, reaching out for her shoulder without quite touching it. 

Michael jerked back and shook her head. “Life isn’t fair,” she said. “It’s the nature of existence. I know that. But I think, when we join Starfleet, there’s this spark of hope. That we can _make_ things right, somehow.” She clenched her face, trying to stop her tears from coming. “Hubris.”

“Michael,” Georgiou said, her breath whispering against Michael’s neck. “You can’t lose hope.”

“If there was ever a human who didn’t deserve to die, it was Ash Tyler,” Michael said. “And I watched the light go out of his eyes. There’s no hope left for me to lose.” She felt her shoulders shake, and the tears burst out of her, unforgiving. Georgiou led her to the couch and brought her tea, which she set on the table before sitting next to Michael, watching her cry without comment.

“You’ll find a way,” Georgiou said. Her voice went hard. “You’re our best and brightest, Michael. We can’t lose you to this. Grief is like a virus. It runs through you and consumes you, but it will fade. Someday you’ll wake up and his face won’t be the first thing you see. He died, and it’s terrible and unfair, and maybe it is proof of the inherent injustice of existence. But his death meant we could live. That has to be enough.”

Michael wiped her face, hiding her eyes. “Enough,” she repeated. 

“Tell me about him,” Georgiou said then, kinder. “This man who was extraordinary enough to capture Michael Burnham’s heart.”

The next day she ate a subdued lunch in the Stamets-Culber quarters, Hugh treating her like she was made of glass and Paul refraining from banter, which only made her feel worse. They put on an old movie and she napped, her head against Hugh’s hip and her feet in Paul’s lap. She heard snatches of conversation as she drifted in and out of sleep, _weird feeling so bad for her, this isn’t part of the natural order. she should be… an intense trauma. it was rough on me not seeing you for a month, can you imagine having to… a women’s shelter. she really loved him. i’ve never seen burnham smile so much in her life. she was like a different… don’t know how long it will take. i’ve never seen her display such strong emotions. and anyway, everyone’s grieving process… so grateful for you, hugh. i know i never say it, but you really are the best thing to ever…_ Michael heard the words, but didn’t really register them. 

When they let her go back to her quarters, she combed the historical archives, looking up her family person by person. The records were sparse, and cut off abruptly. The only thing she found after the war was a picture of Najat shaking hands with a vulcan scientist captioned: “Artist Najat Muhammad introduces Ambassador T’Rinh to human culture.” She printed it and pinned it to her desk, next to the holiday picture which had sparked this whole debacle.

The last thing she found was the single video recording that existed of Ash Tyler, a newsreel clip of him giving an interview at an antiwar demonstration. Ash was more ragged than she’d ever seen him, his face gaunt, his hair close cropped and growing out in patches, his residual arm angled away from the cameras. Still, she recognized his posture, the glow he had when he was feeling alive, his eyes alight with purpose.

_Why bother with a protest like this?_ the newscaster asked, her pointy face skeptical, her eyes narrow. _Demonstrations are a fine method of airing your grievances, but they don’t change anything. Why bother?_

_Why try at all, is what you’re saying,_ Ash said. Michael reached out and touched his face, the old lo-res video distorted on her screen. She willed herself to remember the way Ash’s cheekbones had felt under her hand. _I’m forced to disagree with the idea that we can’t do anything, Ms. Tan. Historically, nonviolent protest has had its successes. The Civil Rights Movement’s nonviolent actions led to an upheaval in American society. Maybe it wasn’t completely effective, but you can’t deny they made a difference. We could equivocate about the impact they would have had without the threat of more radical organizations, the Black Panthers and Malcolm X and so on, but that’s a little off base for this conversation. The fact is that you’re here, covering this protest, which means that you, or someone at your network, recognized that what we’re saying matters. Why bother?_

He grinned then, roguish, and Michael felt her eyes well with tears. _We have to hope. Direct action, my being here, that’s how I’m hoping. I’m hoping that we can have a future where we love one another, and we see that war is pointless. I was in Sudan, just last year, and I can tell you that the so-called enemies I was fighting were people, in terrible circumstances, who needed something more. Maybe food, maybe shelter, maybe hope. They weren’t born wanting to hurt me any more than we were. It’s just that the world taught us so much hate that we were powerless to stop it. The only real enemy is our own indifference, in the end._ He laughed, and tears streamed down Michael’s face. _Well, and the bourgeoisie elite who uphold neoliberal capitalism and perpetuate inequity. But I think that those people are, in a way, just as much victims of circumstance. They never get the chance to find the good inside themselves. America maintains an upper class to maintain its supremacy, and teaches us meritocracy in order to remain unchallenged should someone achieve vertical mobility. As long as capitalism is our socioeconomic system, there will always be another person waiting to fill the gap. So I’m here, appealing, because it’s my hope that someday we’ll all be able to love each other, and want a better world. Until then, I’ll protest, because it’s the best way I know to keep hope alive. I know we’ll reach that world someday. But not if nobody bothers to try._

Michael smiled through her tears. “We got there, Ash,” she told the screen, skipping back to the instant of his ironic laugh. She ran a finger over his pixelated hand. “You can rest now.”


End file.
